“Your family was kind to offer us hospitality,” Ruen said, thinking it wise to change the subject.
Garn looked at him askance. His lips twisted in what might have been a smile, but the bitterness underlying the expression made it difficult to tell. “My daughters offer you their hospitality because they have faith in the king’s judgment. For my part, I think we should have killed that drow prisoner long ago. The king’s wasting valuable time worrying about him. Now your friend has given him another excuse to sit in his hall and fret over the creature instead of focusing on readying our armies. You’ll not be offended or surprised to learn that I am not as glad of your presence as my daughters.”
“I’m not offended,” Ruen said. “Why doesn’t Mith Barak have your loyalty?”
Temper flared in the runepriest’s eyes. Ruen wondered what he had said wrong, but Garn quickly hid the emotion and regarded him with a measured glance. “Perhaps it’s a failing in the language. I don’t count faith and loyalty to be equal. I would die for my king-he is one of my oldest friends-but there are limits to what he can accomplish, especially …”
Garn stopped. He seemed suddenly reluctant to speak. Ruen waited, but he saw the restraint enter the dwarf’s expression, the mistrust, as if he’d just then remembered he was talking to an outsider and not one of his own people.
They walked on in silence. Ruen’s thoughts were troubled. If the dwarves of Iltkazar doubted their king, it was yet one more obstacle they had to overcome in their struggle with the drow. Was it age or infirmity in Mith Barak that brought out Garn’s doubts? Ruen had not noticed any such deficiency in the king during their audience. Mith Barak had come across as strong, cunning, and dedicated to his people. Perhaps there was a deeper, unknown madness that Garn feared.
The thought stirred the blood in Ruen’s veins. He pictured Icelin sitting in the library with the drow prowling around her. He dreaded the prospect of leaving the city, of leaving her unprotected.
Though she probably wouldn’t welcome his company, Ruen thought, not after what he’d told her in the plaza. He shook his head. He owed her the truth, no matter how much it hurt her-or him-to say it.
Sull had sworn to look in on her as often as he could, which was no small thing. The butcher was a tenacious protector, especially where Icelin was concerned. He’d stayed behind to help Joya handle the wounded soldiers returning from the outpost attacks and had appointed himself an unofficial camp cook at the temple of Moradin.
Still, Ruen was uneasy. He reminded himself that obtaining the Arcane Script Sphere and prolonging Icelin’s life was worth the risks they took, but the words didn’t give him as much comfort as they marched along increasingly narrow tunnels and left Iltkazar behind.
Icelin froze in the act of reaching for the fallen book, which now lay open to the third page, blank but for an inscription written in an elegant hand.
Icelin read the words aloud, “ ‘To my lovely Aribella, on the occasion of the end of a life.’ Strange.”
Zollgarza walked over and stood beside her. “You read Elvish?” he asked.
Icelin blinked at him. “You’re mistaken. The language is Common.” She pointed to the text. She wasn’t brave enough to pick up the book. One of the first things she’d learned in her study of magic was never touch anything magical without first knowing the nature of the magic-a lesson she’d already been reminded of with the drow rings.
Zollgarza went down on one knee and squinted at the inscription. “It appears the book alters the appearance of the text to suit the preferences of its reader. I’ve encountered such tomes before.”
“In Guallidurth?” Icelin asked, unable to contain her curiosity.
“Yes …” But the drow paused, uncertain, drawing out the word and staring intently at the book as if he could conjure the other from his memory.
“Was it dangerous?”
“What?”
“The tome you encountered,” Icelin said. “Did it contain harmful magic?”
“I don’t … it doesn’t matter,” Zollgarza said. “This is a different tome. It may have any number of powers or destructive magic stored in its pages.”
“The tome will do you no ill, so long as you intend no ill toward the tome,” said a woman’s voice.
Icelin and Zollgarza both jumped. The sepulchral voice seemed to come from every corner of the room at once. “Show yourself!” Zollgarza shouted. “Another one of your mind probing spells, Mith Barak?”
Ignoring the drow’s tirade, Icelin turned to see how the guards at the door reacted to the voice. There were two of them dressed in the king’s livery, and both wore gleaming mithral maces at their belts, though neither had drawn their weapons. Their gazes were fixed on Zollgarza, but other than the obvious distaste in their eyes, Icelin detected no emotion.
“Did you hear that voice?” she addressed them.
The guard standing to the left of the door nodded. “Nothing to be scared of,” he said, shooting a mocking smile in Zollgarza’s direction. His smile softened when he addressed Icelin. “It’s the king’s seneschal. She means no harm.”
“Never thought I’d hear her voice again,” the other guard said wistfully.
“Is she a spirit,” Icelin asked, “or simply invisible?”
“Better to let her explain herself,” the first guard said. “It’s … complicated.”
Soft, throaty laughter echoed from near the fire. Icelin turned and saw a dwarf woman sitting in the chair Zollgarza had occupied. She rose, spilling golden hair over her shoulders and down to her waist. The woman was shorter than most of the other dwarf women Icelin had seen, including Ingara and Joya. Her bright green eyes matched the robes she wore. The loose sleeves were lined in gold brocade, and she wore tan slippers on her feet.
“Well met,” the woman said, inclining her head. “I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes.” She approached Icelin and held out her hand. Icelin took it. She was half-surprised to find it solid. “King Mith Barak instructed me to aid you. He indicated that time was short.” The woman’s face creased with sadness. “I will be happy to render any assistance I can. I am familiar with the titles and text of every book in the library and can retrieve any tome you wish.”
“You’ve read them all?” Icelin said, stunned. “And you remember everything in them?” She wondered if the woman was afflicted with a spellscar just like her own. Icelin couldn’t imagine trying to find space enough in her head to store the knowledge of all these books. She’d go mad with the effort.
The seneschal smiled. “Yes, I remember-more accurately, instead of reading them all, I am them all.”
Zollgarza scoffed. “She is spirit, not flesh-a magical device for fetching books.” He went back to the fire and sat down, retrieving his book.
“A shame it is to have the library polluted in this fashion,” the seneschal said, eyeing the drow in disgust. She addressed Icelin. “What would you have of me?”
“Um …” Icelin didn’t know how the woman could help her, unless she knew where the Arcane Script Sphere was. But if she did, she would have surely told Mith Barak. “A few questions first, if you don’t mind?” Icelin asked. For some reason, the woman’s deep, wise gaze and aura of serenity made Icelin uneasy. She felt insignificant standing next to her, though the dwarf woman was much shorter.
“Not at all.” The woman smiled kindly. “Ask what you will.”
“Is he right?” Icelin asked, nodding at Zollgarza. The drow seemed not to be paying attention, but Icelin knew he heard their conversation. “Are you a spirit?”
“I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes,” the woman repeated. “I have knowledge and control of all the books you see.” She lifted her hand, and in response, the book on the floor rose into the air and snapped shut. It floated over to Icelin and hovered in front of her face. Hesitantly, Icelin reached up and took it. “Memories of any life I had before my time as seneschal are gone,” the woman continued. “I am bound to one of the tomes in this room, but which one, I will not name. My thoughts are full with the knowledge of thousands of ancient texts. They are enough.”